Hauntings in Black
by Lirazel
Summary: “No matter what he does, no matter how many years pass, no matter how the world changes, he cannot escape them.”   Remus Lupin and the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black
1. Prologue: Walburga

Hauntings in Black

"No matter what he does, no matter how many years pass, no matter how the world changes, he cannot escape them." Remus Lupin and the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black

_A/N: This story will be divided into seven parts, each part dedicated to one member of the Black family. All will be told from the point of view of Remus Lupin._

_I've been working on this one for over a year; I set it aside when I decided I wanted it to be canon-compliant after Deathly Hallows. Needless to say, that complicated things. A lot. But it's one of my babies, and I sincerely hope you enjoy. If you see any canon mistakes, please point them out (kindly—no flames, please) and I will fix them. And please review!_

_Disclaimer: Don't own it, not making any money, not JKR. _

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_Prologue: Walburga_

_December 1997_

The portrait is staring back at him—glaring, with a piercing edge and a loathing he cannot deny. He has lived in this world for over thirty years, and it has become _his_ world, but there are still moments when he feels, violently and suddenly, that he is in a foreign and dangerous place, one that he does not quite fit into. Sometimes the realization comes with a doorknob that bites his hand or when someone Apparates directly in front of him into a dark and silent room or when he is awed anew at the power that he creates himself, coaxed into life with just a few carefully spoken words and the flick of a wooden stick. But it is most often with the portraits, when he catches their movements out of the corner of his eye, when he turns to face them, and they are _studying him back_. Icy blood running through veins and goosebumps covering skin are inescapable then.

She whose portrait this is would have enjoyed it: his Muggle blood—his half mudblood—finally showing itself, and in her presence nonetheless. Perhaps enough of her personality is imprinted, reflected in this paint and magic confection that some semblance of a sense of humor reacts to the situation.

Her voice, when she speaks, is shrill and yet oily, a combination only a Black could manage. He has heard it before, from other mouths, but he is older now, and is more practiced, and he does not let his body shudder in revulsion—that would please her too much.

"So you're finally all leaving, halfblood?"

He does not sharply retort that that word will mean nothing soon, does not wince at the hate behind it, does not even roll his eyes at her inability to hurt him. Somehow the silence she is letting seep into the room after years of shrieks and hurled insults does not allow for anything but a simple, "Yes." And so that is all he says.

Her mouth curls up into a twisted travesty of a smile. It is not a smile, though, no more a smile than this hellhole is a home. He is struck, sickened, by it, but he does not show his feelings. "Good," she says.

He will leave this room and walk out the front door, and he will never enter this house again. Even had this place not lost its sanctuary because of Severus Snape's betrayal, it is too full of ashes and dark memories and darker magic to ever be anything like a home. Even if, as he suspects, in years to come, when all this is behind them, Harry decides this is where he and Ginny want to start their life together, the light of even their love could never drive the shadows and snakes away. Best to leave it, lock it up, never speak of it again, let it slowly disappear, dying out as gradually and agonizingly as its owners did.

Yes, he will leave and never see it again. But there is a woman waiting outside in the rain, three blocks away because there are still Death Eaters who watch this house, waiting to see if Harry Potter will return (_he won't_). This woman disguises her blood with brightly hued hair and flashy clothes, even though her eyes are gray and fathomless, and when she lets herself be who she really is, her hair is dark and silky and her skin is porcelain-pale. This woman is as clumsy as ever, but she has a reason now, for her belly is great with his child, and she glows with love. And he will slip his hand into hers, and they will walk, perhaps in silence, perhaps chatting about a million little things, to her parents' home. And they will fight side by side in the days to come and raise a child with love. And he will try, for her sake, and his, not to remember that, in a way, she belongs to the house he is leaving behind. He will call her Tonks in public, even if he calls her Dora when they are alone, and try to forget that half the blood in her veins is Black.

But deep in the distant, most haunted corners of his mind, he will remember, and a twisted part of him will find both humor and pathos in it. No matter what he does, no matter how many years pass, no matter how the world changes, he cannot escape them. To him, somehow, the wizarding world—_his _world—will always mean the Blacks, as it has since he was eleven years old.

Perhaps, despite his wisdom and training, some of this shows on his face, for the portrait's face contorts into a sneer. "You never really get away, do you?"

He does not answer. Instead, he picks up his ragged coat from the table and shrugs into it, patting his pocket unconsciously to be sure of his wand. As he turns to go, he says one word.

"Goodbye."

And then he walks out the door and into the fast-falling night.


	2. Bellatrix

_Chapter One: Bellatrix_

_August, 1969_

He later developed the idea that she somehow procured a list of every new student at Hogwarts that autumn and ran a full background check on each and every one of them—or how else would she have _known_? The older he got, the less farfetched it seemed, because she was nothing if not absolutely dedicated to her cause, going to any length to get what she wanted. He never mentioned it to Sirius, because he was always half-frightened that his friend would confirm the idea.

At the time, though, he was too scared, too disoriented to even come up with some idea of how Bellatrix Black knew to single him out. He'd been to Diagon Alley very rarely, as his parents had settled in Northumberland shortly after their marriage, and they had no family to speak of in the south. For the first few months after what was referred to in his family as "Remus' accident"—as though he had slipped and fallen onto Greyback's teeth—his father had taken him by Floo directly into Reasonover's Apothecary to get the complicated potion that made his transformation easier—well, less violent, anyways. But father never lingered in Diagon Alley or let Remus explore, and so his wonder on the shopping day before school was understandable.

They'd stopped at Ollivander's first, and Remus's wand had chosen him. He'd always wanted one, felt a peculiar kind of hunger on the rare occasions when he'd seen his father use his. But the feeling of actually owning one, possessing it, or perhaps being possessed by it, was more than he could have anticipated. He'd always felt more than a little out of place at the little school he attended at home; children did not look kindly on peers who disappeared for a few days once a month with no explanation, who always looked tired, who wore threadbare robes, and around whom…strange…things happened. But now he knew exactly where he belonged: ash, twelve inches, and a unicorn's tail hair told him so.

He explored Flourish and Bott's eagerly, amazed at all the things books could _do_ and finally catching a glimpse of subjects he'd never dared let himself imagine. His father kept all of his books locked up in a top cupboard, and Mum's were all Muggle novels with names like _Wuthering Heights _and _Persuasion_.

Years later, it finally dawned on him that he lived a life curiously like a Muggleborn's: magic was tantalizingly close, of course, but never accessible, much less a part of daily life. At first, he resented that. But over time, he realized how tempting it was for his parents to try to forget the world that had transformed their youngest child into a beast at the mercy of the moon. He supposed, if he was honest with himself, that he would have done the same thing in their place: tried to distance himself as much from the wizarding world as possible.

He never really saw all of this as a handicap, but one thing he did know: if he hadn't been brought up as he was, what happened that day never would have happened.

He and Dad were on their way to Eeylop's Owl Emporium, Remus' arms filled with books, when he caught a glimpse of Fortescue's out of the corner of his eye. He had never seen such a place before: colors and smells more vivid than any he'd ever experienced were drifting out the door and open windows, and everyone inside seemed to be laughing. He was an eleven-year-old boy, even if he had been through hell already in his short life; of course he was captivated.

And so he slipped away. He wasn't really thinking about Dad at all, though if he had been, he would have written possible punishments off—Dad wouldn't be too mad, if it was only for a second. Of course, he didn't think about the fact that his father never really let his only son out of his sight. He really wasn't thinking at all, except that whatever those two kids were digging their spoons into looked delicious. He took a quick step towards the store, and the crowds closed in behind him.

"Hello, little halfblood. Looking for something?"

He spun around so quickly that several of his books slid from his arms and scattered on the muddy stones. But he did not pick them up. He couldn't.

There was a woman standing in front of him. Actually, she was a girl, a teenager, perhaps an older student at Hogwarts, but she held her head with the arrogant grace of a grown woman secure in her position, and there was nothing the least bit innocent or childlike in her flinty, heavily-lidded grey eyes. She was so beautiful it was frightening—or perhaps so frightening that she was beautiful. It didn't matter which. All he knew was that he was suddenly, inexplicably, as frightened and cold as when he looked to the sky and realized that the full moon was coming.

"Need some help?" Her voice was cold and haughty and lower than he had expected, as if she was trying out a woman's voice. He stood mute and frozen as she bent, her crimson robes dragging in the mud, to pick up his books. With a sort of horrified fascination he saw that though her features and skin were perfect, her hands were slightly claw-like, like a crone's.

His own hands trembled as he took the books from her. "You should learn to be more careful with your books, halfblood. All the secrets of the universe are in here." For a moment, her contained expression morphed into a sneer. "Are you sure you're worthy of that knowledge?" When he didn't answer, she tossed jet locks of cascading hair over her thin shoulders in a practiced gesture. "Of course you aren't. And there's nothing I can do about it at the moment. But the day is coming, halfblood, when your filthy hands won't ever be permitted to even touch knowledge so deep. What will you do then, little halfblood?"

She waited as though expecting an answer, and he finally found his voice. But it quavered and shook and was very, very small. "Who are you?"

Her smile was cold as ice and made her less beautiful and more frightening. "Don't you worry about that. You'll know us all soon enough. If you've anything close to sense in that head of yours, you'll stay as far away from us as possible. Lay low, child. Don't draw attention to yourself or presume or aim higher than your station warrants, and you might just make it through this alive." She leaned down, hair falling around her like a veil, face inches away from his. Her breath was warm, and its scent was half sweet, half rot. "Or perhaps not. Father says that mudbloods are the most dangerous to our dreams, but _I_ think halfbloods are the worst. Do you know why?"

He shook his head, both because he didn't understand the words she was using and because he was unable to do anything more. She was compelling and repulsive, beautiful and loathsome, all at once, and it was too much for his limited experience to understand. He'd seen evil before, staring into the face of Fenrir Greyback, but this woman-child was the most disturbing and frightening thing he had yet encountered. He had always been more contemplative than vocal, and he could not think of a single thing to say.

Clearly, she expected no answer, for a devious grin spread across her face, one that, strangely, made her seem ugly. "Because you combine the worst of both bloodtraitors and mudbloods. The result of the blasphemous joining of a pureblood with a Muggle or a Muggle-born: the ultimate sin. Everything that is loathsome and unworthy in one person. See?"

He had no idea what she was talking about. It didn't matter. Somehow, he knew that her words were important, big words, ones that reflected the way the world was turning, the way the wind would blow, the path his life would follow. The clouds seemed to cover the sun.

"Remus!"

It was his father's voice, calling from behind him. Somehow he could not find the strength—or desire—to turn and reply. But the woman straightened slowly, her smile spreading again like a crack in porcelain. "Remember, little halfblood."

He felt his father's hand close over his shoulder, and the spell of this wicked witch was lifted as in a fairy tale.

"Remus! Where have you been?"

Father's face was worn and drawn, as it always was when he looked at his son. Remus was struck, not for the first time in his life, at what a burden his…disability was to his family. But the guilt that accompanied that thought was welcome; he preferred guilt to irrational fear of a teenage girl.

"I—I—I'm sorry."

"Oh, don't worry, sir." For a moment, Remus couldn't figure out where the friendly, lilting voice was coming from. Then his mouth fell open as he stared at the girl. Gone was the edge, the lurking shadow, the smoky threat. In its place was a wide-eyed helpfulness, hands clasped behind her back, friendliness radiating off her. "He got caught up in the crowd. But he's alright, sir. I looked after him."

The worn look on Father's face faded slightly under the girl's cheerfulness. Remus's head was spinning at the world turning upside down so suddenly. "Why thank you, Miss…?"

"Black." A sudden, sunny smile, but there was flint back behind her eyes, and at the name a chill gripped him. He shivered. "Well, it was nice to meet you. I hope I see you at school…Remus." At his name, the freezing menace entered her voice again, and before she turned to trip away, the glance she gave him managed to mix loathing, threat, and a twisted sort of humor.

And then she was gone.

He was shivering all over, but Father didn't notice. "What a nice young woman. I hope you do see her at school, Remus. I remember that name, Black. I wasn't at school with any of them, but I think if you have one of that family on your side, school will be much easier for you. And she seems to have taken a liking to you, son. You'd do well to be nice to her."

He was too young and still too caught up in the residue of irrational terror to see the humor. All he could think of was that adults were so _blind_. So easily hoodwinked, believing what they wanted to believe. It was so much easier for them to think of children as sweet and naïve and childhood as a time of innocence and wonder, and so they simply _forgot_ what it was really like.

And he knew that if she could fool father, she would have all the teachers on her side, too. He was young, but he knew she'd just given her little performance on purpose, to prove that to him. She would do something subtle, manipulative, cruel. And he would run to a prefect or teacher for justice and safety, and they would stare at him aghast. "Miss _Black_? Surely not! Remus, I understand that it's hard for a First Year and that you need attention, but lying about another student is not the way to get it…."

And it would happen, again and again, and each time the authority figure would be less and less understanding until finally he was punished for insisting on trying to spread such viciousness against a model student from such a prominent family. And she would be lurking in corners and shadows, smiling that cold, feral smile.

Well, he wouldn't do it. He wouldn't play along. Whatever she did, he wouldn't complain. He wouldn't tell anyone. He would bear it all in silence, and he would endure.

But he would not forget.

"Come on, Remus. We still have two more stops, and your mother will be annoyed if we're not home for dinner on time."

He followed his father into the shops, but the magic of Diagon Alley had lost all of its wonder for him. Over the next few days, he pushed the memory of the fear aside, shoving it into corners of his mind.

But he never forgot.


	3. Sirius

_Sorry about the wait. Things have been crazy what with school starting and such. I'm not entirely satisfied with this chapter, but I'm much happier with the rest of the story, so I hope you'll stick around, because the best is yet to come._

_ Oh, and reviews are lovely things that really encourage posting. Just so you know.  
_

_ --_

_Chapter Two: Sirius_

_September, 1969_

_And_

_October, 1972_

The first thing Remus thought when he saw the boy was that he looked eerily familiar. He watched him plop down on the stool to be Sorted, a cocky sort of grin on his face—the only first year who looked remotely comfortable—and couldn't help but think that he'd seen that exact face before. No, not exactly. The face he remembered certainly hadn't borne a grin, had been sharper-featured, had been older, had been…

Female.

Remus shivered from head to toe when he realized who he was. And the crabby-looking female Professor's voice only confirmed it. "Black, Sirius!" she shouted, and then Remus knew.

The name of Black had taken on a sort of infamy in Remus's mind that had previously been reserved for the boogie man when he was five and Greyback when he was seven. And so from that first moment when he realized who that confident boy was and that he was in Gryffindor, the same as Remus—with a name like Black, though, surely he belonged over there at the far table where the cold-eyed, pointed-featured, haughty-smiling students were—Remus Lupin avoided Sirius Black like the plague.

Of course, he couldn't entirely avoid him, for Sirius Black had more personality than three first years combined. He and his accomplice, James Potter, completely dominated the First Years with a sort of unconscious recklessness that intimidated all their peers. Remus, on the other hand, made himself as small and inconspicuous as possible, so much so that almost no one noticed that he disappeared for several days each month.

Remus sometimes wondered how it took the two of them and their natural curiosity so long to notice what was wrong with him and where he went every month. They did, though, and when they confronted him, he trembled, convinced that they would turn him in, that Dumbledore's hand would be forced and that he would be expelled.

Perhaps he should have known when James and Sirius and Peter decided to be his friends instead that this was real, but he didn't. His childhood had been so lonely and everyone avoided or ignored him for so long that he could not believe that he really had _friends_. In his mind, Sirius and James only let him tag along out of pity or because they needed someone to do the dirty work or copy their notes from or because they needed someone to stare at them worshipfully.

He always pictured the Marauders like this: James and Sirius, the golden children, the life of every party, the darlings of the school. And Remus and Peter, floating along in their wake, thankful just to be included in whatever

He never really thought that they liked _him_. That they wanted to be around him because they liked him. That he was as important to them as they were to him. But apparently, it was true.

It wasn't till fourth year that Sirius proved it to him.

"So I've been thinking—don't start!" Sirius held up a hand and Remus shut his mouth, swallowing the taunt, and grinned instead. He set down his quill to listen to his friend, shoving the rest of his homework aside and moving his bag so that Sirius could take a seat across from him. The library was nearly empty this time of afternoon, and it was Remus's favorite time to study. But whenever Sirius or James needed him, he always dropped whatever he was doing. Homework was no exception. "I've been thinking, and I've come up with a brilliant idea."

"A one detention idea or a ten detention idea?" From first year on, when it became clear that Sirius and James were the mischief makers of the school, they had rated their pranks by how many detentions they would get when discovered.

Sirius just grinned, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. "What do you hate more than anything in the world?"

Remus dropped his eyes to his lap. He hated that Sirius was asking him that when he _knew_ the answer and knew how much it hurt him to talk about it. Now Sirius was just being cruel. He wasn't cruel often, not to his friends, but sometimes he was so thoughtless…. "The full moon," he whispered.

"Exactly!" Sirius sounded almost gleeful, and for a moment, Remus almost hated him. But he never could manage it. Not quite. "And do you know why you hate it?"

_Let's see, perhaps because I have no control over anything I do; I turn into an animal; I'm a danger to everyone?_ Perhaps if he didn't answer, Sirius would just drop it and let it go. Surely even he could see how much this was costing Remus.

Sirius did not take the hint. Instead, he spread his hands wide as though the answer was evident. "Because you're alone."

_Well, that's one way of putting it._ "Sirius, I don't see—"

"So, the answer to this problem is, don't be alone anymore."

Remus started to shove his parchments and books and quills into his bag. He had developed a tougher hide about his "furry little problem" over the past several years, but it had been a long week. He was tired and the full moon was fast approaching, and he could not deal with more of Sirius's jokes right now.

"Hey! Where are you going?"

"Sirius, I can't handle this right now. If you want to joke around, go find Snape or someone and—"

Now Sirius looked genuinely hurt. "Remus, I'm serious."

"Yes, I'm aware of that. The Sorting Hat made that quite clear our first day and—"

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Remus, shut the hell up and sit down. I am not making fun of you."

Remus sat.

"Good. Now. Obviously James and Peter and I can't be with you during your transformations—not as we are. But were-wolves hunger for human flesh, right? They aren't dangerous to other animals, right? They ignore them, leave them completely alone."

"Sirius, if you're suggesting buying me a kitten—"

"Will you just shut up and let me finish? If the three of us are animals, you won't hurt us and then we'll be able to stay with you. And you won't have to be alone and so the transformations won't be so hard. Brilliant, right?"

Remus was developing a headache. "What are you getting at?"

Sirius reached into his bag and pulled out a book. He dropped it on the table in front of Remus, who stared at it as though it might bite him. _Tails, Claws, and Fangs: the Art of the Animagus._

And suddenly Remus understood. "No."

"No?" Again, Sirius looked hurt.

"No. This is dangerous magic, Sirius. Once someone actually becomes an Animagus, it's easy, practically painless. But the process…if anything goes wrong…." He shuddered, unable to finish the sentence. "I don't want the three of you risking it. It's not worth it. I can handle this." _I've handled this for years_.

"You're wrong, Remus." It was the quietness of Sirius's voice, the deadly earnest that made Remus pause. "You can't handle this. And it is worth it. Every month it gets worse and worse, and you're like an Inferius in between. You can't carry on like this. And if the three of us can help you, we have to. That's what friends do, Remus. That's what family is."

Remus's heart swelled with love for this boy that was his brother in so many more ways than blood could have made him. He understood now, saw past his insecurities: he wasn't an afterthought to his friends. They were willing to risk their lives so that his life could be better. They were his brothers.

And he realized, too, that this was Sirius's final goodbye to the life he was born to. Saying those words, calling the Marauders family—that was his way of replacing the Blacks once and for all. Breaking all ties, and moving into a world of his own choosing.

"Sirius…I don't know what to say."

"How about, 'Sirius, you are a bloody genius, and I'm sorry for all those digs I've made about your substandard mental capacity'?"

Remus stood and slung his bag onto his back. He grinned. "Sorry, but one good idea doesn't make up for all the idiotic ones you've had over the years."

"Arrogant know-it-all."

"Pompous git."

Yes. Brothers.


	4. Narcissa

_Chapter Three: Narcissa_

_November, 1981_

She was the last person he ever expected to see and especially here. It was obvious from her frozen expression—he had never seen anyone literally stick their nose in the air, but she managed it—and the way her beringed fingers clutched at her skirts, holding their hems off the muddy floor and away from the whiskey-sticky tables and the blood-crusted cloaks of the men sprawled out on the benches that she did not wish to be there any more than he thought she belonged there.

He watched her a little dizzily from his beaten-up barrel chair in the far corner, and his hands wrapped themselves tighter around the mug as she picked her way through the grime and smoke. She wore a hooded, floor-length black cloak, but even in the half-light of crooked candles and the fire, he could see whispers of ice-blue silk underneath and white-blonde hair pulled back from her face. She saw him, met his eyes, and he was astonished by the difference between her grey eyes and Bellatrix's—where Bella's were stormy fire, her sister's were stony ice. He felt a chill twitch its way through his body.

She paused by his table, looking down her long Black nose at him. Even over the stench of smoke and unwashed bodies and old whiskey, he could smell a perfume, expensive and too rich, wafting off of her. She sniffed.

"Well, I hear that my worthless cousin has gotten himself thrown into Azkaban."

He stared down into the mug, watching the amber and copper of the firewhiskey languorously dance a serpentine waltz in its depths.

"And what with Potter and his little mudblood wife finally dead, and Sirius killing that little Pettigrew rat, that leaves you quite alone in the world, doesn't it, halfblood?"

Her voice was higher, more brittle than Bellatrix's, but those words were exactly what her sister would say were she here. And she said "halfblood" with the same tone Bellatrix had all those years ago in Diagon Alley. Trembling hands lifted the mug to his lips, but he barely felt the warmth of the liquid sliding down his throat.

"It almost makes up for Bella being locked away, to finally have that blood traitor get what he deserves after all these years."

James or Sirius would never have let her finish that sentence—woman or no, a hex would have flown at those words and for a moment his fingers twitched around his wand.

But then he remembered that he couldn't count on what he thought Sirius would or would not do. He had never imagined—not once in all the time since he met him—that Sirius would be a traitor, a murderer. Despite his blood and his name, he had thought Sirius was different. But perhaps there really was no escaping the Black blood after all. Perhaps Narcissa was just more evidence of that.

"Why are you here, Narcissa? To gloat over Sirius's fall?"

He did not expect a straightforward answer, but what he did get he was not expecting at all.

"Regulus is dead," she said flatly. "Sirius and Bellatrix both go to trial tomorrow; I've no delusions; it will be Azkaban for both of them. My father died three years ago in the Dark Lord's service; my mother went mad with grief soon after. Andie is—" She cut herself off sharply and stared away through the smoke, her eyes unreadable. "Andromeda was lost to me long ago."

"And you and Lucius?" he asked. She met his eyes again. "I know he wore the mask, too."

"He will go to trial as well. But he was a victim of the Imperius curse." She said it so evenly, so finally, without a quiver in her voice or eyes, that he himself almost believed her. This was her way of showing him her future; Lucius Malfoy would not be convicted; he had a fortune and convenient excuse; he would walk free. Remus felt sick.

"And should the Dark Lord ever return? Or one like him rise to power?" he asked and his voice was rough.

She smirked. "What do you think, halfblood?"

"You think you're like Bellatrix, Narcissa, but you're really more like Andromeda."

Her eyes flashed at the words. "How _dare_ you, you little halfblood, compare me with that traitor!"

"She wasn't a traitor. She just had different loyalties. Her loyalty ran to love first, not blood, because she never bought into the Black delusion that that's the same thing. And you don't either, not really." He had meant the words to be cruel, to bite, to just_ make her go away_, but even as he said them, he heard the ring of truth in them.

She _was_ different. Not enough to walk away, like Andromeda. But she would never commit herself fully. And she had doubts, now. There was no other reason that she would be here, except that she was so clearly searching for answers. Answers to questions she could not ask anyone else. She had lost both of her sisters, in two very different ways, both of her cousins, and her husband would never understand. So she was seeking out the only person she knew who was hurting as much as she was, who felt as betrayed as she did.

His heart did not warm towards her—he wasn't sure he had any heart left. And he did not forgive her for the support she had given the darkness. But he could not hate her. He was too numb. And, somehow, he thought that perhaps he understood her.

"You have a son, don't you? A son, just a little older than Harry Potter. Tell me, Cissy—" he used Sirius's nickname for her, the one she'd always hated, "—if it came down to him or the Dark Lord, which would you choose?" Her face was white and set and full of cold hate but he thought he saw her eye twitch. "You aren't a true believer, Cissy, not like Bellatrix. You would choose Lucius or your son over the Dark Lord, even if it meant betraying all you say you believe. You would."

He could see that she thought he was accusing her of being weak; her lips were trembling and white. But she did not understand that he could not think of a greater compliment to give her. To choose those you love over anything—_anything_—that was right. She did not understand that he was verbalizing what he had thought Sirius believed—what he now realized the man he had thought of as a brother only paid lip-service to.

As she turned to go, in a cloud of dark silk and perfume that only added to the stench of the place, she looked over her shoulder at him, and her voice shook, only the slightest bit, and he saw her hands grip her skirts even tighter.

"You're wrong. You're wrong, halfblood."

But he knew he wasn't. He had been about Sirius. But this time, he wasn't.


End file.
